


at the end, on a dusty road

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Blow Jobs, Future Fic, Hidden Camera, Kink Meme, Lies, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Sabotage, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25530397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: They meet up for several hours every couple of months, orbiting around each other in an illicit affair that spans the globe. Each time, Alex appears to have lost another piece of himself. Yassen decides to take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 23
Kudos: 121





	at the end, on a dusty road

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Alex is still in MI6, had stopped trying to get out. Yassen, determined that Alex should at least be benched and live off the inheritance he'd gotten, figures that one sure way to get him out of the field is to seed the suspicion that he's consorting with known enemies of the state. Treason would get Alex locked up, but an unwise choice in a hookup might just get him fired._
> 
> I have vague plans to write an alternate ending to this fic, but for now, enjoy!

It is always vexing to be confronted with a problem incapable of being solved through proper application of lethal force.

Problem number one: Alex is still under the thumb of MI6.

Problem number two: Alex doesn’t particularly want to be there, but MI6 have no intention of letting one of their precious assets go.

Problem number three: Organisations like MI6 are much like the multi-headed hydras of Greek myth; cut off one head — say, that of Alex’s handler — and another one grows back and they’ve returned to right where they started. Not even Yassen can single-handedly eliminate all of MI6’s upper echelons. He has the feeling Alex will be quite cross with him if he tried.

There is a rustle of blankets as Alex turns to face him. Yassen had fucked the tension out of him not half an hour ago, but some of the stress is already creeping back in around the edges, and Alex's eyes are watchful in the glow of the single lamp by their bedside.

"You're plotting something," Alex says, in a voice too tired to be properly accusing.

"Am I."

"Yeah."

Silence again, except for the quiet rush of traffic outside their hotel. It is very late in the night but Seattle is never quiet.

Then Alex sighs, a frustrated edge to the noise, but mostly he just sounds tired. "How much longer do you have?"

Yassen gives him a sidelong look. "Long enough for some enjoyable things. Not long enough if you plan to interrogate me about my plans."

Alex scowls. For a moment, Yassen thought Alex is about to turn away, but then with a flex of sinuous muscle, Alex pushes the bedsheets aside and climbs on top of Yassen, straddling him. "I wasn't going to do that anyway." 

No? Interesting. But Alex is a warm, solid weight in his lap; Yassen allows his hands to roam, palming a slow line up Alex's back. "Something enjoyable, then?"

"Might as well make the most of our time here if you're going to vanish for another five months after this."

"Sound reasoning," Yassen agrees placidly, but his attention is focused on the dark shadows under Alex's eyes. Alex at fourteen had been fire and passion, the sort of boy incapable of leaving a mystery unsolved. Alex now, at nineteen... He is older and wiser in a way Yassen approves of. But the spark that makes him _Alex_ — that spark has been dimmed. Worn down, all but snuffed out due to the machinations of MI6.

It is unacceptable.

Fingers tangle into Yassen's hair, and Alex yanks him into a searing kiss. Yassen reciprocates with just a hint of teeth and the promise of blood.

How long before Alex loses the last of his defiant spirit?

***

The house in Chelsea had been sold several years ago. Alex never mentioned why — he rarely ever talks about his life in London, and Yassen has no need to ask him — and he had certainly never disclosed where he relocated to.

Yassen knows anyway. It is a foggy Tuesday night when he turns up on the doorstep of Alex's apartment building. Camden is the sort of student district that buzzes with activity at all hours of the night, but Tuesday combined with the dismal drizzling weather means the streets are relatively quiet. Yassen makes a show of glancing around, as if checking he hadn't been followed, but all he's really doing is ensuring the surveillance cameras catch a glimpse of his face.

When MI6 reviews the security footage later, he wants them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that _Yassen_ had been the one to call upon Alex Rider tonight.

Satisfied, Yassen buzzes Alex's apartment over the intercom. There is no response, but that is expected and Yassen had patience born from years of careful cultivation. He rings again, and again, until finally there is the crackle of static and Alex's voice, distorted through the cheap tinny speaker: _"You've got the wrong flat."_

"Oh? This isn't the home of Alex Rider?"

Wary silence. _"...What are you doing here?"_

"I wanted to see you. Let me up, Alex. We need to talk."

Yassen knows Alex well enough to have a fair idea of what's running through his head right now: anger at the casual invasion of his evening and his home; curiosity, always curiosity; then concern edging on worry, because both of them know Yassen wouldn't show up without good reason. There must be some danger snapping at his heels.

_"Give me a minute,"_ is Alex's final decision. There is an odd edge to his voice, sharp and prickly even through the low quality of the audio.

One minute turns out to be closer to five, but Alex lets him through the main door eventually. They both know that it is pointless for Alex to deny him entry. Yassen is only at the front door as a courtesy.

Alex is waiting for him in front of the door to his flat, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched defensively. He is scruffy in a way Yassen disapproves of, too-long hair falling into his eyes and in need of a shave. "Hey," he says as Yassen prowls closer, "look, if this isn't urgent, can we take it somewhere else?"

"It is urgent," Yassen lies, although he is beginning to suspect that may not be a lie.

Alex looks at him warily. His posture shifts, alert and ready, much more like the Alex Rider that Yassen knows. "Trouble?"

"Let me inside."

Alex still hesitates. Yassen takes a step forward, bringing him close enough to see the flick of Alex's lashes as he looks away. "It's a bit of a mess," Alex mutters.

Yassen doesn't respond, allowing the silence to do the work for him. After another moment, Alex's shoulders slump. "I wasn't expecting company, all right?" He scowls, defiant to the last, just the way Yassen likes. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Yassen raises one eyebrow fractionally, the universal language for _get on with it already._ With one final grumble, Alex unlocks the door and motions the two of them inside.

The inside is —

Well. The most charitable thing Yassen can say is that Alex had made the most of those five minutes and cleared out the worst of the mess, if the size of the garbage bag half-hidden behind the kitchen counter is anything to go by. The sides of the shiny black plastic are bulging. Yassen takes a long slow look around the room, ignoring Alex's growing discomfort at his side. The air has a trapped, stale quality to it. There are grease stains around the stove, which has not recently been used, and the sink is filled with dirty dishes. Bottle caps are scattered around everywhere as well as plastic bags and disposable utensils; Yassen is sure that if he looks into the garbage bag, he will find a sizeable collection of empty bottles and takeaway boxes. Unopened letters spill across the table in an untidy heap. A lone football poster hangs on the wall, crooked, the edges curling into itself.

Among the dust motes, Alex folds his arms and looks away. "I was busy."

Alex Rider is between missions at the moment. He no longer has university classes. He has no social commitments to speak of. He has no obligations in his life except a daily eleven a.m. appointment with a personal trainer at the gym arranged for him by MI6. Dangerous, to have such a predictable routine in their line of work, but in this case Yassen wonders if the loss of that routine would have even greater potential for harm.

"Alex," Yassen says, the word almost a sigh.

Alex's shoulders hunch again. "What are you doing here anyway? Is somebody after you?"

Yassen shrugs. "There is always somebody after me."

A suspicious look enters Alex's eyes, indignation banishing his self-consciousness. "You said it was urgent!"

"Urgency is a matter of perspective," Yassen says philosophically. For example, he would say Alex's current situation is quite urgent.

Alex's mouth opens, ready with a smart retort, but Yassen closes the gap between them in one fluid step and kisses the protests from his mouth. The bitter taste of cheap beer lingers between them; Alex must have been drinking before Yassen's timely arrival on his doorstep. Alex's stubble scratches unpleasantly against his skin.

But, despite everything, _this_ has always come easily to the two of them. Words can be difficult. Emotions, relationships, shared histories — all complicated and unpleasant. Action is so much cleaner. Their bodies know each other, old partners flawlessly melding together, and it had never once mattered whether their dance is one of violence or of passion.

Yassen gives him a light push. "You're not entirely sober. Go freshen up."

"I thought this is _my_ flat," Alex grumbles, but their heated kiss has melted away some of the unhappy stiffness clinging to him, and he heads off to the bathroom willingly enough.

Yassen lets himself into Alex's bedroom. The air of neglect is stronger here, the bed a rumpled undone mess, clothing strewn haphazardly around the floor. It's one way to ward off intruders, Yassen supposes, moving for the third time to avoid tripping over yet another discarded shirt in his short journey to Alex's bed. Despite the mess, there are a limited number of places where he can effectively deploy the spy cameras and bugs he carries. There are no convenient picture frames, no useful nooks and crannies, and the layout of room is such that the streetlights outside will glare revealingly off the lenses of any cameras positioned in the best places to watch the bed.

Yassen will just have to be suitably distracting.

He works swiftly. One camera is nestled into the blinds, one placed low to the ground with a wide view of the room. A bug close to the bed, all the better to catch the sounds of Alex's gasping moans and the unmistakable sharpness of his tongue — until Yassen renders him incoherent, anyway.

Work done, Yassen paces a slow circle around the bedroom, taking in all the small personal details with focused concentration. The desk provides a logical starting place: a thin silver laptop hums there with its screen dark, and there is a messy scatter of papers across the white surface. Yassen studies the unpaid bills and old university coursework, the detritus of a life unlived. The wall bookshelf is similar. Thick psychology textbooks (one appears to be on loan from the university library — long overdue, now) sit in a solemn line, covered with dust. A lone potted cactus adds a splash of green to the room. Yassen can't tell if it's dead.

Outside, the bathroom door swings open with a squeak of hinges and Alex's footsteps draw closer. Yassen moves back to the bed, timing his movements precisely. When Alex opens the bedroom door, it's to the sight of Yassen pulling his nondescript black shirt off over his head with a sinuous twist of his shoulders, the muscles of his stomach flexing. He wears nothing underneath, and his dark brown slacks ride low on his hips.

Alex pauses at the doorway. Yassen watches through lowered eyelashes as he swallows, wets his lips, then steps inside. His eyes dart around the room, never quite settling on Yassen. He doesn't close the door.

"Come here," Yassen invites.

Another swallow. It is rare to see Alex Rider openly nervous.

"What's wrong, Alex?"

"Nothing," Alex says automatically. He stoops, picking up one of the discarded shirts on the floor and throws it into the closet. The tips of his ears are red. "You sure you don't want to go somewhere else? I know a hotel nearby."

Embarrassment, Yassen concludes. Self-consciousness. Understandable, but Yassen has seen much worse in his time than the messy room of an unwell operative. He shakes his head. "Here is fine. Come here."

This time, Alex comes. Yassen pulls him in as soon as he's within range, and the next few moments pass by pleasurably as they relearn each other's bodies. Alex had shaved and the bitter taste of beer is gone, and he kisses like he fights: hot and hard, quick and reckless. Yassen thumbs at the smooth skin of Alex's cheek and allows Alex to crowd the two of them against the edge of the bed, smiling to himself at Alex's newfound eagerness. Their encounters have always followed a similar pattern. Alex is hesitant at the start, natural caution and old memories of danger and loss nipping at his thoughts; his body knows he is in the presence of a killer and urges him, very sensibly, to run.

But then other, more primal instincts take over. The warm glide of a tongue. The press of a thigh between legs, a suggestive pressure. Blood rushing south. The lingering buzz of alcohol smoothing away inhibitions. And then there are subtler things, scent-memory and touch-memory, recollections of past pleasures that send Alex's pulse spiking as Yassen mouths against his neck. There is a reason, after all, why it is not so uncommon for humans to mix pleasure with danger.

Alex's responses are predictable, but this is one routine Yassen has no plans to discard.

With a twist of his body, Yassen flips their positions and kicks Alex's legs out from under him, toppling him onto the bed. Alex lands with a thump and a muffled curse, but when he looks up at Yassen, his pupils are dilated, the colour pleasingly high on his cheeks. "Bastard," he growls, just a touch too breathy.

"Be polite or I shall have to gag you," Yassen says idly.

"You like hearing me too much," Alex retorts, and Yassen allows him a small half-smile, inclining his head lightly to concede the point.

"Will you give me something nice to hear then, little Alex?" He does a quick search of the nightstand, and yes, there are the lubes and condoms he had expected — ah, now _this_ is an interesting collection of paraphernalia...

Alex is sitting up, eyes fixed on him, the flush on his skin darkening. But his jaw is mulishly set, and he looks at Yassen with a clear challenge in his watchful eyes. Yassen smiles again. "Have you been thinking of me? When you were on your bed, alone with _those_ ," he nods at the drawer he had been looking through, "were you thinking of me?"

"Just get over here." Once Alex has warmed to the situation, he moves quickly indeed. Already, he's shrugging off his shirt with a haste that speaks of a man trying to escape his own thoughts. A flick of his thumb takes care of the lone button on his jeans, and then the zipper is pulled down with a movement that is almost vicious, exposing a tantalising glimpse of black briefs underneath.

Yassen can work with this. Ignoring the toys for now, he tosses the lubes and condoms over to Alex, who catches them easily. The red flush still hasn't faded from his face. He is still so inexperienced, his Alex, and for a moment Yassen feels a wild violent surge of possessiveness at the thought that he must share these private moments with Blunt and his ilk.

"Yassen?" Wariness flashes across Alex's face. "What's wrong?"

"Hm." Expression smoothed into an inscrutable mask once more, Yassen climbs onto the bed. "Let me see you."

"Isn't that what you're doing already?" Alex snips, only to groan lowly as Yassen grabs a handful of shaggy blond hair and pulls him in for a rough, demanding kiss. He groans again as Yassen's hand goes to the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down. Alex's hips move in a quick shimmy, and soon his bare legs are stretched across the bedsheets, the only piece of clothing left on him the black briefs. Yassen hooks one finger under the edge where stretchy fabric meets soft, fair skin, and Alex's thighs twitch. They twitch again as Yassen cups the round contour of the bulge that weighs heavily against the fabric, and Yassen exhales lowly. Alex is not hard — _yet_ — but the feeling of him, blood-hot under the silky fabric, is intoxicating.

Alex's hand dart out, closing loosely around Yassen's wrist. When Yassen glances up at him in silent enquiry, Alex looks him right in the eye, refusing to back down. "I want to see you too."

"Yes." The word comes out low, just a bit throaty. Alex has always been the one exception to Yassen's iron control over his emotions. His hands go to his belt, but before he can do anything Alex's hands are there as well, pushing his own aside. Yassen permits it, hungrily watching Alex's face and the look of focused concentration there as Alex pulls off his belt and tugs his fly down. Both his slacks and underwear swiftly follow, Yassen kicking them off with no hesitation.

Alex's hand is cool and Yassen's cock twitches as Alex takes it in his grip, sure and strong. They've done this often enough before that Alex has figured out how Yassen likes it: some lube to ease the way, then slow, careful pumps of his fist, dragging all the way from base to tip. The view is very nice indeed. He likes the feeling of Alex's calloused palms against his skin, but more than that, he likes the sight of Alex's intent expression, the narrowing of his eyes, the way he bites his bottom lip until it's red and shiny.

"Alex," he murmurs after a few moments of this. His fingers brush a lock of blond hair out of Alex's eyes, then cradles the back of his head, thumb resting against the pressure point at his nape. Instantly, Alex goes still, but Yassen knows him well enough to see that it isn't fear darkening his eyes. "Alex," he says again. "Let me touch you."

"Right. Yeah."

Probably Yassen should be thinking about the best way to position Alex for the cameras, but there is a possessive part of him that he is unable to excise, and it goes cold and hard at the thought of Alex being put on display, Alex being filmed, Alex's every word and action and expression being picked over by MI6's analysts...

The strength of his own surging anger takes him by surprise. Yassen's eyes narrow. This is an inconvenient turn of events. It is not often he has second thoughts about his own plans, and rarer still that the root cause is a surplus of emotion. His instincts tell him to pull away, put his clothes back on and vanish into the foggy London streets; he's gotten too close to Alex, gotten too deep. Down that path lies only another bullet to the chest.

Instead, Yassen pushes Alex to the bed again, covering his body with his own. "You're in a weird mood tonight," Alex mutters, but he falls silent readily enough when Yassen strokes his cheek and captures his mouth in another bruising kiss. His hips arch as Yassen slides one hand between the two of them, pulling down those form-fitting black briefs to take Alex properly in hand, fingers wrapping around his firming shaft and drawing it into the open air. Alex gasps a low eager noise, skin sliding against skin as he wriggles under Yassen, squirming out of the briefs entirely.

This would be an effective scene for the cameras. From the eager way Alex thrusts into his fist, there is no question that Alex is here of his own free will, no coercion needed. Just a few snippets of this scene and Alex’s standing with MI6 will be tarnished forever. MI6 doesn’t even need to see much, just the suggestive jerk of Alex’s body, and perhaps a few shots of his face, the brown eyes clouded over in pleasure as Alex tries to drown out his own thoughts with the simplicity of sex.

Yassen doesn’t move. His body continues to block the cameras, hiding Alex’s face from the spying lenses.

“Come _on,_ ” Alex groans without warning. His legs wrap around Yassen’s waist and he cants his hips upwards with a frustrated growl. “You’re miles away tonight. Do you actually want this or not?”

Sometimes Alex surprises him with how well he can read him. "I always want you, Alex," Yassen says quietly, and as predicted Alex's face flames and he averts his eyes. He has so little defence against honest affection.

"Just get on with it."

"Pushy," Yassen chides. He is not in the mood to be hurried tonight, but Alex can be quite persuasive when he puts his mind to it, rubbing off against Yassen's hand with a quiet groan, the heel of his foot catching against Yassen's back. Yassen adjusts his grip, and the next slow drag of his fist makes Alex shudder violently.

Before, Yassen had a clear idea of how the night ought to play out: Alex splayed out across the sheets, every inch of him exposed to the cameras, his chest heaving and head thrown back with pleasure. He had plans to make Alex come all over himself, over his stomach and face. He had plans, too, for the toys in Alex's drawers, for the lube and condoms. The cameras would capture Alex at his most debauched, spread open around a thick toy or around Yassen's cock. _You cannot trust him,_ the video will show. _He is a young man so ruled by his libido he would willingly let an assassin control him._

Now Yassen is caught and held by second thoughts. Alex will never again trust him after this; Yassen had been prepared for that fact, had counted on it — trust is a luxury neither of them can afford in their line of work and this affair between them had already lasted too long. But it would be worth it to make an end of things if it meant Alex can be free of MI6. Alex would be able to find his footing afterwards, Yassen had thought. He is resourceful. Given a bit of time to recover, Alex can start rebuilding his life, recharting the course of his future. Nineteen is not so old; Yassen's own life had been upended at nineteen. Alex will manage on his own. He must.

_"Yassen,"_ Alex breathes. His heels dig into Yassen's back in sharp jabs as he writhes against the bed.

"Yes." He draws his thumb against the slick beading at the tip of Alex's cock. "Be patient."

There is a possibility that this is their last time together. Yassen thought he was prepared, but the savage snarl of anger and loss in his chest catches him unawares. All of a sudden, the urge to have Alex completely becomes overwhelming. Fast as a striking snake, he slithers down to his belly, resting flat against the bed. Alex's cock jumps in his grip; Alex had mentioned before that Yassen's speed catches him off-guard, and judging from the darkening arousal in his eyes, that isn't a bad thing at all.

Their new position leaves Alex's face open to the cameras as Yassen brings his head close to the tip of his cock, grip twisting to massage the base as his mouth brushes the glans, breathing a stream of warm air against the slit. There is a shuffle of blankets as Alex props himself up on his elbows, staring down at Yassen with undisguised want. Yassen flicks him a brief, faintly amused smile, then closes his mouth around the head of Alex's cock with ease. Immediately, he tastes salt. His tongue curls against the head in slow strokes, and he stays like that for a few lingering moments, licking and teasing with his tongue, until he feels Alex's thighs twitching with impatience. Then comes the part Yassen enjoys most, taking Alex deeper into his mouth with precise motions, feeling the warm vital beat of his pulse the entire time. _Alive._ It is not something to be taken for granted. Yassen savours the throb of Alex's heartbeat right against his lips, his left hand reaching forward to cup Alex's balls, letting their heavy weight rest in his palm. His fingers extend, massaging the perineum in slow motions.

The effect is instantaneous. Alex's cock jumps in his mouth, and he lets out a breathy gasp, hastily choked off. When Yassen glances up at him, it's to find Alex staring at him with wide glassy eyes. The air between them is electric. Then Alex's eyes dart away, squeezing shut. A bead of perspiration drips down his forehead. He lifts one hand to his mouth, biting down at the back of his wrist to stop himself from making further noise.

Well-pleased with his efforts so far, Yassen continues to circle his fingers around the warm skin, sometimes teasing at the balls, but mostly focusing on the perineum. His careful strokes gradually grow firmer. Simultaneously, he continues lavishing Alex's cock with attention, pairing skilful twists of his wrist with long, slow swipes of his tongue. Alex responds with beautiful full-body jerks when Yassen's tongue teases the crown of his head, so Yassen lingers there for a while, toying with the delicate folds where the foreskin retracts.

Alex's breathing grows deeper, harsher. His hips thrust forward in small involuntary movements that Yassen swallows down easily. But, as always, it is Alex's face that holds Yassen's attention. In any other circumstance, Alex would never allow himself to be studied so closely, so it is no surprise that Yassen's eyes are now riveted to the furrow of his brow and the lines of tension that crease along his eyes. Alex looks both old and very young. The way he turns away from Yassen, eyes screwed tightly shut, that is the very picture of a bashful young man afraid to confront his own desires. But the scatter of nicks and old scars, silver against the ochre glow of the streetlights outside? That tells a different story. Alex has the body of a battered soldier.

Yassen keeps up the relentless pressure against the perineum, knuckles gliding again and again right over the spot that sends Alex's whole body clenching and drops of milky liquid splashing against his tongue. Alex thrashes, thighs closing in a vice grip against Yassen, but his eyes are still shut and yes, more extreme measures are called for.

Without warning, Yassen pulls away, the head of Alex's cock popping out past his lips with a wet little sound. Alex makes a strangled noise, hips bucking wildly.

And, more importantly, his eyes fly wide open. Yassen stares into those dilated pupils, and Alex stares at him in return, wild and defiant. The connection between them stretches, a silken cord, a hangman's noose.

It is enough for Yassen. He takes Alex into his mouth once more, a swift deep slide, surrounding his entire length in wet heat. Alex chokes back an expletive, but nothing can stop the way his whole body spasms, a shudder rippling through him from head to curling toes, digging into Yassen's back. His cock pulses, once, twice, then a series of lesser twitches. His release floods Yassen's mouth. The sheer volume of it is gratifying; Yassen swallows it all down without blinking, watching Alex through half-lidded eyes. When he is done, he pulls back, tongue swiping over his lips.

Alex _groans_. His eyes fix on Yassen's mouth. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.

Yassen allows himself to smile once more with just a hint of smugness, then licks his lips again, very deliberately.

Something dark and feral slams over Alex's expression. With a speed that surprises even Yassen — little Alex Rider truly has grown into a capable young man — Alex surges against Yassen, pinning him to the bed with strong hands against his hips and, ah, there's his tongue, licking a hot wet stripe against the underside of Yassen's cock. Alex's technique is all heat and desperation and no finesse at all, but it is entirely _Alex_ , and it works for the two of them. Yassen brushes his fingers against Alex's lips as pleasure hums through his body, a rising heat that ends with him spilling into Alex's mouth.

Afterwards, when they have both recovered their breath, Alex pulls himself up to slouch against the headboard and look down at Yassen with watchful eyes. He does not know it, but he is sitting very near the bug that Yassen had placed earlier. Again, Yassen experiences that complicated mix of anger and regret and guilt.

Attachments are so messy. Inconvenient. He still would not give up Alex for anything.

Unless it is for Alex's own good.

"You're thinking again," Alex observes.

"Yes. I usually am."

Yassen's tone is dry as dust, and Alex responds to the implied criticism with a huff of breath that stirs his overlong bangs. "Hey, I do plenty of thinking."

When Yassen arches his eyebrows pointedly upwards, Alex scowls. "You know I'm not blind, right? Something's been up with you all night."

"If you say so." The post-orgasmic haze had left Yassen more mellow than usual, but that is fast evaporating. He pins Alex with an unblinking stare, expression giving nothing away. Silence can be as effective a tool as any sharp-edged defence or misleading equivocation. Let Alex talk himself into a corner.

"I do. So what's on your mind?"

Alex pulls himself straighter up. Yassen is still lying in repose, and Alex’s new position casts a looming shadow over him, but Yassen only stares at him with calm equanimity, allowing his gaze to drift slowly down Alex's body.

Alex caves first with a low groan. "You’re impossible. Are you going to at least tell me why you're here?" He changes tack, adaptable as always. "Should I be expecting someone to kick down my door any second now? I'm not too keen on having a firefight in the middle of my flat, thanks."

"I ensured I wasn't followed."

"Ensured. Right." Alex presses his lips together in a thin line. "So you're being hunted?"

Yassen shrugs. He had already answered that question earlier. He is always being hunted.

Alex's stare is closer to a glare now. "Is this going to be a thing from now on? You're just going to drop in on my flat out of nowhere, with no explanation?"

It is an interesting thought. It will not happen, obviously, but the hypothetical is entertaining enough that Yassen doesn't discard it right away. "Do you hate the idea so much?"

Alex runs a hand through his hair. He seems to be giving it serious thought. "Look. I don't mind having you here," he says carefully, and Yassen darts him a curious look. _Don't mind having you here_ is as good as an invitation. Alex frowns and shakes his head. "But I need you to be honest with me. If someone, something's coming for you..."

"No one is coming, Alex."

"Then why are you here?" Like a bloodhound on a scent, Alex refuses to let go. "You'd never drop in for a social call. Not to my flat."

"Is it so impossible to believe that I want to see you?"

"When you're coming to where I live? Yeah." Alex stares at him in challenge, daring him to argue. Right now, he is every inch an agent, eyes brighter and more alert than they had been the entire night. "It's too risky for you. You wouldn't be here unless you needed something."

"So little trust," Yassen murmurs.

"I trust you plenty." A surprised look flickers over Alex's face, then he doubles down on his mistake as he often does. "I do. I trust you more than I should."

Yassen had already known that, but hearing it put into words is...different. The complicated knot of emotions pulses in his chest again, then settles in his stomach in a hard, leaden weight.

Something must have shown in his expression, because Alex presses on, every bit as ruthless as Yassen has ever been. "So. Are you going to trust me in return?"

***

"I've ran every single test I can think of, put it through every single algorithm I could. There's no question about it. It _is_ Alex in that video."

Smithers' face is very grim. Jones feels her last spark of hope die out.

"You're absolutely sure?" She asks, although she already knows the answer.

"Positive. What I don't understand is, _why?_ "

"That's the question all of us are asking," Jones murmurs. "And the man with him..."

"Yassen Gregorovich, just like we thought. It was hard to confirm his identity solely from the video recording, but I found something else." Smithers slides another picture to her, this time of grainy CCTV footage, but the face staring up at her is unmistakably that of the infamous Russian contract killer. "This was taken outside Alex's apartment building the same night that video was created. It's him."

"And the person who sent the video?"

"Untraceable. I'll keep trying, but..." Together they look down at the blurry shot of Yassen Gregorovich. "I suspect we already know who's behind all this."

"Yes." Jones sighs. "Well, thank you for your work, Smithers. I'll let Alan know."

"Should I delete the materials?"

If only she could say yes. There's a part of Jones that will never stop seeing Alex as a fourteen year old boy still reeling from the loss of his uncle, forced into the world of espionage long before he's ready, his innocence taken too soon. And this... This is a particularly heinous betrayal of trust. An intimate violation. What is Gregorovich playing at?

She'd like nothing better than to sweep the whole thing under the rug and pretend that damning video never made its way to MI6, but she has her duty. "No. Treat it like any other piece of important evidence. I know you care about Alex, but this matter goes beyond him. We can't forget how dangerous Gregorovich is."

Smithers nods, but he lingers in her office. "You know this is our fault."

Their fault for backing Alex into a corner. Their fault for not being _better_ , for having to rely on a teenager to do their work. Their fault for creating a child soldier.

"Alex is an adult now." Jones says evenly. "He's been an adult for a long time. I'm as fond of him as you are, but we can't overlook the fact he's in contact with one of the most wanted men in the world. You know how many people Gregorovich has killed. Alex has made some very bad decisions knowingly, of his own free will."

"Surely you're not going to punish him?"

She reaches for a peppermint. "We all have to face the consequences of our actions."

***

"Next matter on the agenda," Blunt says crisply, precisely an hour and twenty-three minutes into their meeting, "the video of Alex Rider. Any news?"

"Smithers confirmed the authenticity of the video and the identity of the participants. It's Alex and Yassen Gregorovich. The sender is still unknown."

"In other words, nothing new. What are your thoughts?"

_That this whole thing is one bloody great mess,_ Jones replies in the privacy of her own mind, but she's always been a consummate professional, so she begins rattling off a list of her own assessments and observations. "Our most immediate concern is that Alex had turned against us and is leaking information to Gregorovich, but I find that unlikely. Judging from Alex's behaviour in the video, whatever this thing between them is, it isn't new. If Alex has been passing on information he would have been doing it for a while now, and we've never had reason to suspect him."

"Until now," Blunt mutters, but motions for her to continue.

"It's more likely this is a lapse in judgement. A serious lapse, but Alex wouldn't be the first agent to be compromised in this manner." There is a reason swallow operatives are used throughout the espionage world. "Besides, Gregorovich always had a... _connection_ with the Rider family, Alex in particular. We all remember that unpleasantness at Air Force One."

Blunt sniffs. Jones has known the man for many years, and he's never thought much of petty human affairs like emotional bonds and life debts. "And what does Gregorovich want from all this?"

"That's the question, isn't it," Jones says. Her finger taps thoughtfully at her tablet. A copy of the video is saved there, but she's watched it so many times that every second, every shot, is committed to memory. "Gregorovich cares about Alex." The video itself is proof of that. Jones has seen this sort of tape many times before — they are always obscene, humiliating records. They must be, in order to be effective blackmail. By contrast, this video is almost artful. She experiences a moment of dark amusement at the thought of Yassen Gregorovich painstakingly editing the video, trimming it down to the most tasteful clips while taking care to obscure any identifying information about himself.

"I think the video is a warning. I think Gregorovich wants us to take Alex off the field, and this is his way of showing us that he has Alex compromised. Let's say we keep using Alex as an agent. Gregorovich still has the original copy of that video. He only has to send it out to whoever Alex is working with, and Alex's reliability is immediately called into question, and our agency's reputation along with it. That's not even getting into the fact that Alex trusts Gregorovich on some level. He may not have betrayed us yet, but we can't dismiss the possibility that Gregorovich will win him over eventually, or that Alex might let critical information slip by accident."

"Your recommendations?"

"Take Alex off field work, effectively immediately. Alex's greatest assets have always been his youthful appearance and his good instincts. At the moment, he looks older than his age. His instincts are not always reliable and are likely to grow less so, considering he's a nineteen year old with significant psychological scarring."

"He's still a useful asset at the moment, isn't he?" Blunt looks at her, cool and grey. Searching for signs of emotional compromise, no doubt. She gives him none.

"His performance on his last few missions have been less than ideal. He is a wildcard with a significant distrust of authority. We've been lucky his missions have worked out as well as they did. _He's_ lucky to even be alive. And we both know that luck runs out." Jones pauses. Alex's survival had never mattered to Blunt. Only his usefulness had. "Alex is almost twenty now. Per Ian Rider's will, we hold his property on trust until he turns twenty-one. I propose we leave Alex to his own devices until then."

"Go on."

"We both know Alex is too damaged to return to a normal civilian life." There it is, a fact she had never wanted to accept, but one that is undeniable. "One way or another, he'll return to espionage eventually. It's better if he thinks he made the choice of his own free will, and Gregorovich will have no reason to complain if Alex is the one to make the decision."

"Honey rather than vinegar?"

"In essence. Give him the next year to rest. A year to recover and realize he can no longer have the life he once wanted. We'll re-establish contact on his twenty-first birthday to settle Ian's will and from there we can find some way to guide his return to intelligence work."

Privately, Tulip hopes Alex will use that year wisely. She hopes Alex will find his own path outside the murky world of MI6 and the long shadows cast by John and Ian Rider.

Mrs. Jones knows better than to be so optimistic.

Blunt's expression never changes, but Jones can feel the gears of his mind at work, a mechanical ticking, weighing up cost and benefit with ruthless, inhuman precision.

Then he nods. "One year. Make the arrangements."

***

A surprise summons to the Royal & General is never a good thing, especially when Alex had been promised at least another week of downtime between missions. Alex puts his phone away, then rolls onto his back and stares blankly at the ceiling. He is still in bed. Yassen had left two days ago, slipping out without a word while Alex had been fast asleep, which is par for the course, really — Alex would be more shocked if Yassen had woken him to say goodbye. His scent had long faded, but the pleasant aches he left behind still remain, as did the buzz that lingered in Alex's blood, a sense of settled contentment that he hadn't experienced since...the last time he had been with Yassen, come to think of it.

His life is a bloody mess, but at least his flat is cleaner than it had been in months. Another thing to thank Yassen for.

Alex knows he should get up and get ready for the briefing, but his limbs refuse to obey him, and he continues to stare up at the ceiling as the minutes crawl past and the time of the appointment creeps closer and closer. Good thing Yassen had left. He wouldn't think much of Alex if he saw him this way.

It's that thought which finally spurs Alex to roll out of bed, and once he's on his feet, he's a hurricane of movement as he hastily freshens up and yanks on some clean (if wrinkled) clothes, sprinting out of the door in record time (he'll get something to eat later). He makes it to the Bank just as the clock struck eleven.

"Come in, Alex," Mrs. Jones calls when he knocks on her office door. She is at her desk as always, and Alex slides into his usual seat across from her. It's all very normal. 

Something prickles at the back of Alex's neck anyway, some sixth sense he had learnt to trust.

"How was your journey here? Did you have a smooth trip?"

Mrs. Jones gives him a small smile. Alex doesn't trust it one bit. He shrugs. "It was all right."

The smile slips off Mrs. Jones face. Her hands seem to move on their own, unwrapping a peppermint and popping it into her mouth, and all the while her eyes never leave Alex's. "Yes. Unfortunately, I had to call you here for a serious matter. Alex... Is there something you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is there something you think I should know?" Mrs. Jones presses. "Something MI6 needs to know about?"

His guilty mind flashes to Yassen. "I don't know what you're talking about. Did something come up on the last mission?"

Disappointment passes across Mrs. Jones' face, there and then swiftly gone again. "So this is your choice."

His sixth sense is _ringing_ now, a blaring alarm that almost sends him jumping to his feet, but he forces himself to stay calm. It's not like he can fight his way out of this building anyway. "Let me know when you plan on making sense, thanks."

Mrs. Jones looks at him steadily, something almost like pity in her eyes. "You've been betrayed, Alex."

Before Alex can react, she slides her tablet across the desk. Alex's gaze drops down. A video is on the screen, paused, but Alex recognises the scene instantly.

It's his bedroom.

It's his bedroom, his bed, occupied by two blurry figures.

Him and Yassen.

"You can play the video if you like."

Alex shoves the tablet away violently. "You were spying on me." He's shaking. "Why?"

"No, Alex." Mrs. Jones is still looking at him, still quiet and calm, still with that awful pity. "This video was sent to us from an anonymous source."

"I don't believe you."

"Should I show you the email?" Mrs. Jones shakes her head. "You can believe what you like. But I notice you aren't denying the contents of the video."

"You've already made up your mind about me anyway. You wouldn't call me here unless you thought the video is real." His mind scrambles through the possibilities — who took the video? Why? "So what happens now? Did you make me walk into my own arrest?" 

"That depends." Mrs. Jones takes a breath, and Alex braces himself. "All I want to know is _why_? Yassen Gregorovich killed your uncle."

As if Alex hadn't asked himself that same question. As if Alex hadn't spent multiple sleepless nights with that same idea rattling around inside his head until his ears were ringing and his stomach cramping with nausea. He shakes his head and looks down at his hands, clenched into fists against the unforgiving hardness of the armrests. No. No chance he's talking about this with MI6.

"Were you coerced?" Mrs. Jones is kind now, giving him a way out. Alex shakes his head again, and her eyes go steely.

"You know how many people he's killed. Did you think he was in London just to see you?" When Alex stays stubbornly silent, Mrs. Jones slides a file across to him. A photograph of a man stares accusingly up at Alex. "This is Frank Jenkins. A barrister involved in a high-profile contractual dispute case. He was found dead yesterday under suspicious circumstances. He had a spotless record, left behind a grieving wife. We think Gregorovich was involved. Alex, why didn't you _tell_ us he was in London?"

_You could have stopped this,_ is the unspoken reprimand.

"Look," Alex says flatly, choking back the acidic guilt, "if you're going to arrest me, just go ahead and do it."

"You're talking like you want to be arrested! I don't understand you."

Mutinously, Alex gives a subdued shrug.

"We have enough to put you away for a long time, you know. Harbouring a wanted criminal. Aiding and abetting. High treason."

"I didn't pass any information to him, if that's what you're asking."

"You realize we can hardly just take your word for it."

"So what are we having this conversation for?" He _knows_ he's in the wrong, and the knowledge sends resentful anger flaring through his whole body, lashing out like wildfire. "Why am I even here?"

"Alex, calm down," Mrs. Jones says, like she's speaking to a fucking child.

"Just tell me what you want from me."

"Information. Anything you can give me, anything at all."

Alex laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "You're asking the wrong person. You've watched the video, haven't you? Spent hours and hours studying every last detail? Then you should know Yassen and I don't exactly spend a lot of time talking."

It's a stalemate. Mrs. Jones pushes, cajoles, threatens. Looks at him with pity, sometimes, and that's harder to stomach than the rest of it. Alex answers a few questions. Stays silent for more. After a while, he rests his head against his hands, his focus fracturing. The interrogation blurs into meaningless noise. He just wants it to end. All of it.

He doesn't quite remember what happens after that. Well, he remembers being _released of all obligations to MI6_ , which is just a polite way of saying fired, sacked, dishonourably discharged, whatever, but he’d be more surprised if he still had a job after all that. Then there are technical details to sort through. A monthly stipend — at least he won’t find himself out on the streets. Something about the Bank holding his property on trust, Ian's will continuing to hang over him like an executioner’s blade suspended only by the thinnest of threads. Surveillance. _We'll have to keep you under close monitoring, Alex, you understand. But if there's anything at all that you need, or if you'd like to come forward with new information..._

He'll sort through it all later. Mostly, as he drifts back to his flat in Camden, moving like a sleepwalker, Alex's thoughts are occupied by Yassen.

They had spent a long time together that night. Yassen had been unusually attentive and generous, less of his usual teasing, more of those long, lingering looks that send molten heat spreading through Alex's bones. He had thought at the time that Yassen was acting strangely. But then Yassen had overwhelmed him with skilled touches and such rare affection that Alex had been entirely helpless in its face, and Alex no longer had the presence of mind to push further.

How did he not put it together sooner? Yassen had been saying goodbye.

Numbly, Alex opens the door to his flat. He stands in the middle of the lounge, breathing in the dusty staleness of the air.

No more MI6. No more missions. No more running for his life, no more defying death by the skin of his teeth.

He should be over the moon with joy. Instead, when Alex tries to picture his future, it is like clinging to the precipice right at the edge of a chasm as the darkness yawns under his dangling feet, vast and terrifyingly empty.


End file.
